


Waiting For Home

by sporksoma



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Adult Content, Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Brooding, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-12 14:56:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9077569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sporksoma/pseuds/sporksoma
Summary: Hawke leaves Fenris a note: "The Inquisition needs me, I have to go."  Fenris is distraught; why didn't she bring him along?  Is she *leaving* him, leaving him?  So he tracks her down and makes it to Skyhold, and then....waits, until she comes back from Adamant with the Inquisitor.
And I'm horrible at summaries.  There's a lot of brooding and pining and introspection and it's got a happy ending.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this because the idea that Hawke left Fenris behind (with a note, apparently?) is utter crap. And the idea that Fenris wouldn't chase after Hawke is also utter crap. But hopefully this writing isn't utter crap. And there's some adult situation towards the end, but it's written that way on purpose, I swear it. I can write better smut than that. It's not *exactly* smut imo.

                It was strange, he mused, as he walked freely through the gates of Skyhold, that it wasn’t bigger, or more imposing.  He had been hearing about the Inquisition and their Inquisitor for weeks now, as he made his way from Kirkwall to Skyhold, and he expected the fortress to be huge and imposing, not this beautiful castle high up in the mountains, as it actually was.  And now he was here, too, in this place, and he would get answers.  He would find out where his Hawke was, even if he had to kill this Inquisitor.  Find Hawke.  _Be whole again_.  That was his plan, and a fine plan it was, as far as he was concerned.  Varric was also at Skyhold, and so finding him would be a bonus, but only if he found Hawke as well. 

  
                He had to find Hawke.

                It was strange, how none of the guards stopped him.  A tall, armored elf wearing a huge Blade of Mercy on his back, tattooed with lyrium; surely someone like him wasn’t so common a sight?  Surely this Inquisition had better guards than _these_ men and women?  He was tempted to stop and ask them if there was anyone they actually _did_ stop, but he was in a hurry.  Hawke might be in there; he hoped Hawke was in there, prayed fervently that she was.  Fenris needed Hawke like he needed air and water, and he had come from Kirkwall, by ship and by foot, to find her. 

                _He had to find Hawke._

                Inside Skyhold proper, the part that was contained by the curtain walls and protected by gates and two portcullises, there was a loudness, a cacophony that was due to hundreds of people crowded into one place.  Living here, working here.  He could hear, vaguely, the sound of a smithy somewhere, and soldiers drilling (both battle mages and actual infantry; he knew too well the sounds both made when they prepared for war.)  Off to his right he could see the stables, and felt a vague surprise at the presence of creatures other than just horses.  Fenris stopped mid-step, jaw dropping and staring in fascination at something that was large and white and had some sort of horns on it.  Whatever in Thedas _that_ was, he was certain he didn’t want to be on the wrong end of a charge by it.  With a shake of his head, Fenris reminded himself of his goal:

                **_He had to find Hawke._**

* * *

 

                Since, presumably, none of the guards wanted to do their job and ask the strange elf his business, Fenris decided he would have to approach one of the guards and get directions.  Surely someone knew where Hawke (or, barring no Hawke, Varric) was; someone had to have some idea of what was going on around here.  
                

                “Excuse me,” he said, to the nearest guard.  The man had been eyeing him for a few minutes, but had not seemed interested in approaching Fenris.  Either he was very confident or he was a fool; Fenris was obviously a threat, or a potential threat, and the guard should have recognized that and worked to protect the Inquisition.  “Can you tell me where Hawke is?  She is a beautiful human woman, shorter than me, with long black hair and blue eyes.  She is a mage.  Or perhaps Varric Tethras; he is a dwarf, with a crossbow?”

                “Varric, is it?”  The guard eyed Fenris up and down before getting a look of awe on his face.  “You’re that elf, aren’t you?  The one from the book?”

                “What book?”  Fenris asked, suspiciously.

                “The _Tale of the Champion_!  The one Varric wrote!  Everyone here’s read it.  And you’re looking for Hawke.  Maker’s breath, Darrel!” He called to another guard, gesturing him over.  “Darrel, it’s that Fenris, from the book!  Here for truth!  Run and get my copy and see if he’ll sign it!”  Indeed, Darrel went running.  Fenris arched a brow in disbelief. _Him_ , sign a _book_?

                “Is Hawke here or not?” he asked gruffly, curling his gauntleted hands into fists.  “Or Varric, since you seem to know him?”

                “They’re with the Inquisitor, at Adamant.  Wait, no, that’s not right; they’re coming back from Adamant Fortress, now.  Should be here in a week, with good time, last I heard.  Varric and the Inquisitor, at least; I can’t rightly say that the Champion was with them.  There were confusing reports, but I know we won.”

                “She hates that title,” Fenris said, automatically.  “Who did you win against, man?”

                “You haven’t heard?  Been living under a rock, then?”  At Fenris’s growl, the man held up his hands in a placating gesture.  “Peace, man.  We’re fighting against this magister, name of Corypheus.”  Fenris choked on his own air and spit and stared at the man for a moment.

                “Corypheus.  You are **certain** of the name?”  Maker’s Light, Corypheus was _dead_.  Fenris was there, he was _there_ , they had killed him!

                “We’re all certain.  He attacked us at Haven and has been the one behind all this mess.  The Inquisitor had to go out to Adamant Fortress to stop something about demons and… oh, just a whole mess of things.”

                “I… see,” Fenris said.  It wasn’t true; he didn’t see.  He didn’t understand how Corypheus could be back, when he clearly knew the thing had died, and he didn’t understand why the Inquisitor had to go all the way to this fortress, wherever it was, with his Hawke.  _His_ Hawke, just as he was hers.  “And Varric is with them, you said?”

                “Aye, and the rest of the Inquisitor’s Inner Circle, too.  Don’t suppose you’d be interested in any of them, of course.  If you’d like, I can take you into the Keep proper and see if you can’t get an audience with the Lady Nightingale; she’ll have all the new intelligence.  Ravens go out twice daily, you see.”

                “That would be most kind of you,” Fenris replied, gratefully.  Darrel ran back up, carrying a couple of books and a lead pencil, and thrust them at the elf.

                “Sign it?” he asked, between gasping breaths.  Fenris had never signed a book before, so he opened it to the title page and wrote his name in his blocky print: “Fenris Hawke.” Then he handed it back to Darrel, who grinned broadly, before writing his name in the other one and handed it to the talkative guard. 

                “Thank you, Ser!” Darrel said, obviously delighted.

                “Indeed, thank you, Ser Fenris,” said the talkative guard. “I’m Reg, by the way.  Darrel, Ser Fenris needs to meet with the Lady Nightingale.  I’m going to take him, so let Cor know.  I’ll be back in a bit.”

                “It were nice meeting you, Ser Fenris,” Darrel told him, earnestly.

                “The pleasure was mine, Darrel.”  The pleasure was not his, truly; _impatience_ was his, at the moment.  Impatient to see Hawke, to touch her, to feel her solid against him, to know _why_ she left the way she did, how could she possibly think of leaving him, to find out if she planned on coming back to him.  However, one thing Hawke had taught him was that civility went a long way, especially with guards and servants, and that sometimes a kind word or sentiment was remembered much longer than coin. 

* * *

 

                The guard, Reg, kept up a regular flow of chatter and gossip all the way up what seemed interminable stairs.  Fenris was glad all that walking about Kirkwall at the time had gotten him acquainted with the idea of a highly inappropriate number of stairs, as Skyhold seemed to be little but in some places.  Some of the stairs weren’t exactly confidence-inspiring, either, and parts of the Keep seemed rather like it was falling down.  Reg pointed out various places of interest to him, including the tavern “The Herald’s Rest,” where he could get some good stew and surprisingly good ale; the throne room, which was, apparently, well-decorated, and then they were going up more and more stairs and passing through the library, which Fenris was interested in nearly as much as he was the idea of the tavern (breakfast having been more than half a day ago, and the idea of some fine ale or wine, something he hadn’t been able to touch since departing Kirkwall, was rather appealing, if he were honest with himself) and _finally_ into the rookery, where this Lady Nightingale was supposed to be holding court.

                “Lady,” Reg said, nervously.  “This is Ser Fenris.  The Champion’s… well?  Yes?  He’s here looking for her, Lady Nightingale, and I told him you’d be the best bet for information on that.”  The tall, red-headed woman in mostly purple and chain mail examined Fenris with shrewd blue eyes, set hard in a face that didn’t seem much inclined to smiling.

                “Thank you, soldier.  You are dismissed,” she said, coolly, but not rudely.  Her gaze did not leave Fenris, and he felt the fine hairs on the back of his neck stand up; this woman was probably one of the most dangerous in Thedas, and he wasn’t sure even his skills with ghosting and his blade would be enough to defeat her.  More to the point, this woman knew something about Hawke, and she wasn’t sure how he would react to hearing it.

                “Lady Nightingale,” Fenris began, trying to keep his voice polite and knowing that he was failing, but she interrupted him.

                “Ser Fenris Hawke.  It is a pleasure to finally meet you.  I have read Varric’s _Tale of the Champion_ several times, and was surprised that Hawke did not have you with her.  Hawke is alive, and is headed back this way with the Inquisitor and the Inquisitor’s Inner Circle.  Unfortunately, that is all I can tell you right now.”

                He released a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.  “She’s alive,” he whispered, and clenched his eyes shut tightly, curled his right hand into a fist and felt the tattered, red silk ribbon tied around it.

                “The reports even I have from Adamant are confused, but we did get that much.  I was informed that you were acquainted with Alistair, through the Champion?”

                “I… yes.  I knew him, more or less.  We had run into each other, from time to time, and Hawke was corresponding with him before her disappearance.”  Lady Nightingale nodded, as if this were a mere formality.

                “Warden Alistair died, saving Hawke and the others from the Fade,” she said, simply.  “I traveled with him, and the Warden-Commander Surana during the Blight, you know.  Alistair and I were intimately acquainted, shall we say?  I grieve his loss.  Hawke, from what I understand, volunteered to take his place in the Fade, to let Alistair escape, but in the end, the Inquisitor chose Alistair to stay behind.”  At the mention of Hawke in the Fade, Fenris felt ice shoot through him, and his stomach leapt into his throat.  Why would Hawke be in the Fade?  What was the woman talking about?  “I hold no ill will against the Champion, Ser Fenris, but you must understand that I have lost a lover and must grieve, and… Please go.  Find Ambassador Montilyet and she will see to your needs.  Any of the servants or guards can point you her way.  And be glad that your Hawke survived, and do not let her go without you being there for her, in the future, Ser Fenris; you can never know if that will be the last time you ever see her.”

                “I am sorry for your loss, Lady,” he replied, as gently as possible.  “Until later…”  He stumbled down flight after flight of stairs, as if in a daze, and managed to corner a young serving man who seemed terrified of him.

                “I must speak with Ambassador Montilyet,” Fenris said, pressing a couple of silvers into the man’s hand.  No more than a quarter hour later and he was being led through several doors and into a large office, complete with a fireplace and a small library of books and a large -a very large- desk that was piled with neat stacks of paper.  A quick introduction and a look of sympathy from the Antivan woman seated behind the desk, and Fenris was soon shuffled off to a room he was assured was already set aside for Marian. 

                “The Champion has done much for the Inquisition,” the Ambassador kept assuring him.  Fenris had no care for the Inquisition, in general, or Marian’s help for them, so long as she was safe. Whatever Marian had chosen to do did not matter; she had _left_ him, something that hurt his heart in a way that he hadn't felt since he left her after their first night together. It was almost like some great punishment given to him, years down the road.  Her activities for the Inquisition didn't matter; her leaving did.

                Montilyet could not give him assurances that she was safe, no more than Nightingale could, but this was -is- the room, he can tell.  It had been tidied up, and the bedclothes changed, of course, but he can _tell_ , and so Fenris clutched the heavy pack that has been carried from Kirkwall to his chest while this Ambassador -a small woman, with a kind smile that was barely genuine- promised him all his needs will be attended to while he waits for The Champion.  Fenris doesn’t want The Champion, he wants _his Hawke_ , but he simply nodded his head and thanked her for her help before firmly shutting the door behind the woman.

                “The room” was actually three rooms: a small suite, with a hearth and a sofa, a writing desk and a chair; a bedroom, with a tall wardrobe and a bed that will be large enough for the two of them to sleep in comfortably, although her mabari, Weezl, would have to sleep on the floor, here; and a small washroom/garderobe, which reminded Fenris sharply of the luxury that Hawke had known when she lived in her estate in Kirkwall, and not the little cabin they shared, so close to the Vinmarks, _after_.  If Hawke was going to continue helping the Inquisition, these are fine rooms to have, he thought, and if Hawke is going to continue helping the Inquisition, then Fenris would, too.

* * *

                 He washed up, getting the travel dust from his hands and face and hair, and settled on the bed with his pack so that things could be put away properly: a change of clothing, the comb that Hawke finally insisted on him having _(“Fenris, your hair is delightful when it’s freshly washed and combed, but you let it get tangled and it’s no fun to run my fingers through!”  “That must be rectified,” he had replied, gravely.  “I must insist you run your fingers through my hair on a daily basis.”)_ ; the shirt that he had always worn during the winter, when his dilapidated mansion had gotten so cold, and that Hawke had confiscated when she realized it smelled like him.  That shirt now smelled like _her_ , because she had used it to sleep in enough that it was worn through and _hers_ and not his anymore, but she had left it behind in their little cabin and Fenris needed the smell of her to surround him so he could sleep at all, sick with worry and dread as he had been.

                The little things all unpacked and put away, and his Blade of Mercy carefully laid out on the weapon stand in the corner of the main room, for the time being.  Only Hawke, a mage through-and-through, would ensure that there be a weapon stand in her rooms for guests to use.  He would have laughed at the idea, if he didn’t realize the implications behind it: she had spent so much of her life having to fight, and having to have warriors around who needed such things, that it was like a second habit to have a weapon stand around.  Even if the last year had been more domestic than fighting, the impulse of a lifetime had never gone away.  Mage though she was, Hawke understood the value of having a warrior at her back, to protect her, and protect others from her, should the worst happen.  Always prepared, his Marian.

                It was then that his stomach growled, and Fenris counted out the coin he had left over from his trip.  A surprising amount, to be sure, but he wasn’t entirely certain how much he would need for what.  The tavern held stew and ale, he had been told, and that alone was enough to make him pocket the coins again and go in search of it.  Perhaps the Skyhold kitchens would hold food he did not have to pay for, but he would taste the Skyhold fare later; tonight, he wanted to be around people who had seen her recently, and perhaps get some information.  Fenris was not a man given much to being around others, especially not in a tavern setting -it had taken him weeks of knowing Hawke and her crew before he felt comfortable drinking with them, not trusting the three mages, or the strangers in general, and most of those weeks had been spent with Hawke innocently dropping by his borrowed mansion and, coincidentally, bringing food with her each time. ( _Until she stopped dropping by, and started dropping hints that they would like to see him at The Hanged Man, and he felt the sudden press of loneliness on him, and the desire for something other than stale bread and hard cheese.  He realized, then, that she had been taming him like a wild animal the whole time -some food, some light touches, gentle words and smiles- and part of him wanted to rage at her.  How dare she get under his skin in such a manner, this mage?  What magic had she used on him?  Until he realized that her offers of friendship were sincere, and his armor started to crack just slightly, and she planted the seeds of the vines of love in between the cracks.  By the time years had passed, those vines had destroyed his armor and encased him as surely as one of Merrill’s Dalish spells encased their enemies, and he found he didn’t mind at all._ )

                The guard had not exaggerated about the stew and the ale; both were good, as befitted the headquarters of the Inquisition.  Obviously, Fenris mused, sopping up the last bit of stew with his last bit of bread, the Inquisitor and her “Inner Circle” ate frequently here.  The Inquisition was a wealthy organization already, he knew that much, and of course they would make sure that their only tavern could properly serve visiting dignitaries and the like. 

                After eating, he found his way back to the library, although he did have to ask for directions a few times.  There was obviously not going to be much to do other than wait until she arrived; a week, or so, he was told.  There were worse things in the world than being forced to sit around and enjoy fairly good food and have peace to read as much as he liked, even if it did mean he had to wait for Marian to get back.  The "waiting for Marian to get back" part was going to be nearly insufferable, however; to have her coming nearer to him, but unable to get to her sooner.  Fenris was not a patient man, when it came to her.

                What would he say to her?  She had _left_ him.  He was her husband, and _she had left him_.  Did she not ever mean to come back?  Her note was brief, terse, which in itself was strange; if anything, Fenris considered her writing to be rather verbose and her script flowing.  It was both irritating and a joy to read when she had taken the time to write him anything.  Some of the letters she had written, which were safely back at their little cabin in the Vinmarks, made him blush to remember, and for a moment he wished he had brought those, so he could read her flowing script and _remember_ those words, and her voice saying some of them in especially heated moments, close to his ear, with fingers caressing over his flesh.  But this note was written in a much different type of script, nearly so different that he was afraid she had been kidnapped, or forced to leave.  He had to _know_.  He had to.  He and Hawke had been friends, lovers, husband and wife for ten years in total; she wouldn’t just leave him completely with that brief, oddly-written note, would she?

* * *

                 In between mealtimes and reading, in between exploring the grounds and trying to find out news of the Inquisition and Hawke, he practiced his sword forms, as always, and even sparred with a few of the Inquisition soldiers.  There were not many remaining on the grounds, as most of them were needed at Adamant, but the ones who were there were happy to work with him.  Fenris was known, even at Skyhold, thanks to Varric’s wretched _Tale of the Champion_ , which he finally got around to reading.  It wasn’t _wretched_ , but it was highly dramatized in places.  And he did not _brood_.

                Nightingale told him, every day, what news she had: they were a day closer.  There was a setback, and they would be a little late.  Hawke was still with them.  Yes, she had been injured, but many had been injured in the battle, and her injuries were tended to and not grievous to begin with.  Reports about what happened with the Fade were, as yet, unclear, but she would tell him as soon as she knew more. 

                _He needed Hawke, like he needed breath in his body.  He needed her then, and now, and always._

                “They will arrive tomorrow, Ser Fenris, so long as nothing keeps them,” Nightingale said to him.  She seemed to never lose patience with him asking, and always replied with the same tone of voice, but Fenris always felt he was intruding, anyway.  He just needed to know; he just needed Hawke.  And if he knew the area better, knew the terrain, knew where they were coming from, he would leave out right then and meet them halfway and then _he would have Hawke back_ and no one would keep him from her, not even herself.  But he did not know the area, nor where they were coming from, and so he paced. 

                He could barely eat, so full of a mixture of anticipation and wariness and nervousness as he was, and sleeping was beyond him, although he knew he would want to be awake and sharp for the next day.  He finally managed to doze off in the small hours, only to awaken with nervous jolts each time, until finally he gave it over and went off to the larger bathing chambers to make sure he was clean; they were nearly deserted, this time of day, anyway.  He knew Hawke would appreciate him more if he were clean and refreshed for her.  In his head, Fenris went over all the tips Varric had given him to impress women ( _to impress Hawke_ ) and these included “Be clean and neat, have clean clothes, smell good, and give flowers.  Even if the woman doesn’t like flowers, she’ll like that you _tried_.  And don’t give roses; too cliché.”  So he made sure his clothes were clean, and his armor was well-tended, and his hair was neatly combed _(although it forever fell into his face, no matter what, and she liked it long, or so she had said to him once, years before, so he would not cut it)_ and he smelled… like he was clean, at least?

                And then, as the sun was peaking over the horizon, or what horizon one could see up here in the mountains, he took up a position along the battlements, Skyhold-side of the long bridge, and set about waiting for them.

                It was a fairly long wait, as these things went, but Fenris refused to give up his vigil.  Even when the sun rose high, and midday had passed, the most he had done was shift position and stand to walk a little bit so that his muscles didn’t cramp.  He would be there, he would be the first to catch sight of them, he would see-

                And then they were there, as the sun was starting to go down and the sunset bloomed red and pink and purple.  Fenris jumped down from his perch and ran across the bridge, no longer able to hold back his impatience, scanning all the faces he could see.  There were guards, at first, and he easily dodged around them, not that any of them were trying to hold him back.  A Dalish woman, _vallaslin_ boldly done in blue-green on her face -that must be the Inquisitor.  There was Varric, always the shortest man around, and there was-

                “Hawke!” he cried out, racing for her.  She stopped and turned in his direction, her blue eyes going wide with shock.  A quick look passed over her face, one of guilt and sadness, and he could _see_ her mouth tremble, and could see her eyes go bright with tears.

                “Fenris?”  It was so soft, her voice, nearly impossible to hear over the din of people, if he weren’t straining for it, searching for it.

                “Marian,” he said, reaching her and grabbing her arms, holding her still while everyone except Varric flowed around them, giving them looks which he ignored.  She was _there_.  She was _there_ and she was _whole_ and she was-

                “Fenris, I’m so sorry I left with only a—“

                “Marian, _you are mine_ ,” he said, roughly, and pulled her against him, burying his face into her hair.  She smelled like road dust and sweat, and just a hint of blood.  Obviously, she had not had that much of a chance to wash up well after the battles they fought, and he would make sure she got plenty of chance to relax in a tub of steaming hot water, but… “ _You are mine_ ,” he said, more fiercely, possessively, and he knew it was wrong, because _he was hers_ , but…

                “I am yours, Fenris,” she said, fingers digging tightly into his skin, tight enough that she might even leave bruises on him.  He could feel the dampness of her tears through his shirt, and he realized how tightly he was holding her and tried to let go, but she clung to him.

                “You guys are so sweet you’re going to make my teeth rot,” Varric quipped, but his tone was full of grinning and humor and a sort of relief that Fenris didn’t expect.  “This isn’t the best place for a heartfelt reunion, though, kids.  How about we take it to my palatial suite at Skyhold?”

                “I missed you,” Hawke murmured to him, finally letting go and turning to Varric.  Her hand sought Fenris’s hand like a beacon, however, and she held it tightly.  “No offense, Varric, but I’ve seen enough of your chest hair over the last few weeks to last me some time.  I think I’d be happy to go to my room and find out exactly how Fenris got here.”

                “Just remember that she needs to come up for air sometime, Elf,” Varric said, grinning.  “I’ll see if we can’t find some of the good stuff for you guys, later; I’m guessing the reunion’s gonna last a while.”

* * *

                 He followed her, as he always did, unable to keep his eyes off her back, the way her hips swayed, even tired as she obviously was, the set of her shoulders ( _defensive, waiting for the knife, waiting to be yelled at_ ) and the way her ponytail bounced on her armored robes.  The rest of the world might not have existed, for all Fenris cared; Marian was there and _Marian was his_ and she was _alive_ , and unharmed, as far as he could tell.  

                She did not lose the defensive stance, even when they got to her -their- rooms.  She un-holstered her staff from off her back and placed it against the wall.  Not on the weapon stand, however; never on the weapon stand, because then she would have to admit that the staff was a weapon and not just a great source of Healing amplification, as she always wanted to insist.  The silence between them felt like a heavy, tangible thing, for all Fenris wanted to bury his hands in her hair and his tongue in her mouth and himself inside her and _feel her_ again, feel her being _his_ and melting under his hands like she had done so many times before...  
               

                “I… Fenris, I am so sorry,” she said, shattering the silence, her back to him and her hands in front of her.  Probably fidgeting, if he knew her; she fidgeted when she knew she was wrong, and had to apologize for it.  “I am sorry that I left you with nothing but a note, Fenris, but I had to.  You… You cannot understand.  I _had_ to.”  
               

                “You had to leave me, in the middle of the night, with nothing but a note.  Yes, I see.  Far better to leave me worried sick about you than, say, taking me with you, or at least explaining to me, as if I were a grown man capable of reasoning, why you had to go haring off to the Inquisition without me.”  She winced visibly, and he knew he had struck a chord, but Fenris was feeling angry and spiteful then, and seeing her there, and safe, made him realize it was safe for _him_ to feel that way, finally.  It had been there, but buried and bottled up, something he could not even acknowledge in case of the worst.

                “I deserve that,” she replied, her voice small and quiet.  “I deserve your anger.”

                “ _Why_ , Marian?  Do you not trust me?”

                “It’s not that!”  She turned towards him, but did not face him.  “Not just… not just only that.  I couldn’t ask you to support the Inquisition because they support the mages—“

                “To the Void with the mages, Marian!  I support _you_ and that is all that matters!”

                “—And because it was _dangerous_ , Fenris.  It was Corypheus, and it was _dangerous_ , and there was red lyrium—“

                “All dangers I have faced with you before, Marian, and all dangers I would face with you again.  I walked into the future with you, Marian, and that did not mean that I back down or flee just because things get difficult!”

                “—And I couldn’t risk you dying, you idiot!  I couldn’t risk you,” she finished, her voice small and quiet and full of tears.

                “Weak excuses, Marian.”  He stood, arms folded across his chest, brows furrowed in anger.  Marian sank down onto the sofa in front of the hearth, still angled towards him but her head down, not looking at him.

                “I know, Fenris.  I know they’re weak excuses.”

                “Did you intend to return?”

                “If I survived.  I still… I’m supposed to go to Weisshaupt,” she said, and now all of her exhaustion sounded in her voice.  “I have to go to the Anderfels, and tell the Wardens what happened.  But I needed to come back here, first; there was no way I was going to be able to make the trip there immediately, and I was going to write you…” 

                Silence descended again, heavy and weighted between them.

                “Fenris…”

                “You will not leave without me, Marian.  We are a package deal, remember?”

                She chuckled, but it was nearly humorless.  “I will not leave without you, Fenris.”

                “Good,” he said, nearly growling.  “I would have followed you again, anyway, and then you probably would have gotten a spanking instead of a lecture.”

                “You mean we have to leave off the spanking part?”  She almost looked at him, then, almost grinned.

                “I have better things in mind,” he told her. 

                “Do these ‘better things’ eventually involve a hot bath, and hot food, and large quantities of alcohol, and maybe a massage?”

                “For a start,” he replied, feeling some of his own humor return.  She was there, she was with him, she did not leave _him_ , she only left, and she was still his as much as he was hers.

                “Well, then,” Marian said, standing up and stretching.  He could not help but admire how her robes played over her curves.  How long had he been apart from her?  Months, now, without her touch, without _her_.  Even her magic, the call of her mana against his lyrium, had been missed; he didn’t realize it now until she was so close to him.  She made his head swim; it was like an addiction, a drug, being near Hawke, being with his _wife_ again, an addiction he had spent too long without feeding.  “Perhaps we should—“      

                His lips captured hers, fingers caressing over the swell of her hip, the curve of her cheek.  She gasped against his mouth, in surprise more than anything, and parted her lips for him, hands encircling his shoulders, pulling herself up on her toes to reach him better. 

                Fenris growled slightly and hooked his hand down under her bottom, lifting her up and against him, and then turned slightly to push her up against the wall.  Marian laughed, delighted, and quipped about Skyhold’s walls finally being able to stand up to his fetish, but Fenris quickly silenced her again, taking her mouth with his, slipping his tongue over her lips.  He held her in place while hiking up the hem of her robes up around her waist, his mouth moving down her jaw line to her throat, tasting her, reveling in her. 

                Quick, impatient movements, and the leggings she favored under her robes were down at her knees, and his own leggings were unlaced.  Teasing fingers found her, and it was the work of moments to get her ready for him.  He took a deep breath and pressed his forehead against hers, both arms working to hold her up between him and the wall, and he looked her in the eyes as she adjusted their position and then he was _inside her_ and he was _home_ for the first time in months, even if home was away back in the Vinmarks, home was always with Marian, his Hawke.     

                “Fenris,” she gasped, her nails digging into his skin through his shirt, where she was holding herself against him.  It was all he could do to hold her and breath and not reach his release too quickly, despite her “Hurry, hurry, Fenris,” which was driving him _mad_. 

                It had been too long, though; too long apart, too long without her, too long sick with worry and desire, and this need he had now was to make sure she was truly whole and his, and he found himself crying out her name and nuzzling his face against her hair as he released inside her, breathing heavy.  Not his best or most inspiring performance, but he felt calmer now than he had since he woke up the day before she disappeared, and Marian seemed to know it.

                “It’s okay,” she told him, brushing a kiss over the tip of his ear, which did nothing to drive down the want inside of him.  “I’ll be a little more active next time.”  Fenris huffed a laugh, his hot breath causing wisps of her hair to flutter.

                “I do not think it was your performance that was wanting, Marian,” he assured her.

                “We’ll just have to do it a couple of more times to evaluate, then,” she replied, her voice tinkling with laughter.  _This_ was his Marian, this woman who found joy and happiness and the dogged determination to keep going even in the worst of circumstances. 

                “I look forward to being your experiment,” he deadpanned, but he could not keep the smile from his voice even then.  _Especially_ not then.

                “You’ve got me all messy, Fenris,” she chastised, playfully, as she tugged her leggings back up and around her hips again.  “Now I need that bath double-time, although I doubt I’m going to be able to get in there anytime soon.  You have no idea what it’s like when the Inquisitor comes back from a mission, and this one…” She sighed, although the exhaustion did not come back over her like it had before.  He must not have been the only one starved for touch, for a physical demonstration of their relationship.  Perhaps her leaving had affected her as strongly as it affected him?  
               

                “Unless there is something vital to be said about it,” he told her, seriously, “we will discuss Adamant tomorrow, Marian.  I have no wish to discuss that tonight.  Tonight, I have you back, who I thought was lost to me forever.” 

                “You’re so dramatic and broody,” she teased him, running fingers through his hair.  He instinctively tilted his head into her hand, closing his eyes and breathing out a contented sigh, and she snuggled closely, pressing her face against the crook of his neck.  They stood like that, together, for several minutes.  It was home, he knew.  Being home again. 

                For the first time, Fenris realized that perhaps Marian needed him as much as he needed her.  She was his water and his air and his everything, but maybe… Maybe he was that to her, as well.  Stability, and reassurance, and _home_ , and belonging to someone and having someone completely simply because you wanted to and not because of obligations you did not ask for.

                His arms encircled her tightly and he squeezed her harder than he wished.  She made a slightly protesting sound, half between a squawk and a laugh, but he could not, would not, let her go in that moment.  He breathed lightly against her ear the words he had been saying for years, but with a slightly different meaning, now.  “ _I am yours.”_


End file.
